She wears a morning (psychedelic canvas)
A slight film of unease has now stuck to my skin
as when children learn the wireless dance of junkie angels
swimming, never walking,
through the sand dunes of desire.
As I struggle through my fast
a lack of commitment stings my missing centre.
That's when I see Her hurry through
stripping the horizon, hissing like a blade:
Our Goddess wears a morning!
And I no longer feel
that light's just passing by.
Excessive stimulation polishes thoughts leaving
all the roughness on the inside
Radical radical lines and beats of a day too many
the seraglio of potential endings
Tracing bending like cables broken colours sending
out diamonds wrapped in paper
She twists to follow unfathomable depths you see
through the glass of a fishbowl
I represent here the praise of the picture we paint
removed as I am from the real.
Like feeling my roots in a jar of wind I captured back home
and still carry with me each day
La sosta del pellegrino è ristoro
- non dell'anima, stavolta - ma del corpo.
E ognuno intravede uno scorcio fugace
dell'ordito di chi segue o precede.
Riempita la sporta,
riprende la strada.
sorrisi e risate hanno un peso leggero...
To know how far the spirit may travel
is only guesswork.
On the plateau of desire
see sand, experience air.
I'm sure when I promise
that nothing I feel is useful:
it's but a way that time has
to remind us to forget.
Yet I know that before evening
it would be nice to end my journey.
And a crisp new whiteness
sprouts despite the dust:
something like a snowdrop through the yellow of bones.
We are using a traditional moca machine on a gas fire. No cartridges, electricity or pre-dosed units.
- He had frugal habits, I can now speak this secret. Others, it will be right and just to keep.
No water is like that of the land I belong to. Now I am asked if any water will do. I acquiesce, but cannot agree.
-Nature tends towards enthropy and untidiness. Life's response is a call to order and method. There is joy in metabolism.
Compress the ground black dust into the filter. Too hard and you risk a blockage, too loosely, and you will lose character.
-The art of wisdom, glimpsed but never owned. I carry the matrix, devoted to trying.
Look, listen, and smell the signs.
-Children's eyes are large, as eyes never grow. Ears grow, and they are the last to switch off. There are no smells is space. But I know children's eyes are large to drink up hot sunshine.
Drinking up black sunshine. No milk, no water should contaminate the finished brew.
-Keep all tears out of this precedure. Look to a higher place. To love is to free this time.
Breathe and feel the rush - a shot of life and pleasure.
-My friend, could I have kept you longer? I'll never know. Godspeed. I miss you.
The best I can do today.
The ghost ship
Mistakenly misshapen horizons
appear through a curtain of mist,
disquieting like the splinters on deck
which are still the death of me...
We hardly noticed her keel over
so used to otherness our thoughts,
yet though formed on the inside
at our peril we ignored the mast and sails
the waters that cradle this nutshell,
every fish, each atom, all the moonbeams
with their signals, omens and regrets
we did neglect - and now...
I drink to your skull my friend
I loosen my grip
on this mess of beams, slivers and shards.
In this Ocean of chance
I am fast learning my place.
I pray - no, not to live -
but that if I do, I may follow through
where another, not I needs that I be.
And now for a little rest:
I wish my features to be smooth
when the shoreline finds me.